


A Battle Fought In The Mind

by VikingWitchling



Series: A Battle Fought In the Mind [1]
Category: Hellblade: Senua's Sacrifice (Video Game), The Originals (TV), The Vampire Diaries & Related Fandoms, The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Angst, Battle, Childhood Trauma, Death, Family Feels, Gen, Mental Instability, Old Norse, Pagan Gods, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Vampires, Vikings, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2020-12-24 22:55:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21107378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VikingWitchling/pseuds/VikingWitchling
Summary: Set in an alternative version of The Originals universe. Inspired by Hellblade: Senua's Sacrifice."The aftermath of Finn's death and how Freya deals with the loss of her brother."





	1. Loss Of A Brother

**LOSS OF A BROTHER**

It’s been twenty-four hours since Freya watched her brother die. Twenty-four hours since her heart broke. It all happened so quickly it now feels unreal. Like a dream that is threatening to slip from her memory.  
But then it all comes crashing back, and she breaks all over again.  
They burned his body shortly after Finn’s heart stopped beating. Freya held the torch that lit his funeral pyre. And later, she, Elijah, Kol, and Niklaus, scattered his ashes into a river in New Orleans. Said their goodbyes.  
She would have liked to bring him back home. To put him to rest between the tall mountains and beautiful fjords. But that would be a luxury she cannot afford.  
Lucien Castle has warped their mother’s magic and turned himself into an abomination that threatens the lives of her siblings. It is Freya's duty to find a way to stop him.  
And yet at this very moment, she cannot focus her mind on the enemy. It is still too raw and wounded, consumed by the memory of her little brother, her first friend…  
  
It is good that she did not take to her bed before the funeral, for now that she has taken her place atop the mattress she cannot get up. Her body refuses to move, and every attempt feels like swimming through molasses.  
Her brothers leave her alone for the most part, and for that she is grateful. She does not want to talk. Yet she does not sleep. Her own thoughts prevent her from doing so.  
She doesn't eat or drink. The tray of breakfast Elijah brought her this morning lays untouched. The coffee and oatmeal have long since turned cold. He does not chastise her when he comes to collect it in the afternoon but asks if there is anything else he can get her. She turns her back to him.  
  
When night comes and her brothers think she is asleep, Freya can hear them talking. Their words carry to her easily like a subtle scent on a breeze.  
  
“If you’re so worried just force her to eat. Shove it down her throat.” Kol. He’s been drinking. A lot. She can tell from the slight slur in his speech.  
  
“Or perhaps we could try to show some empathy,” Elijah counters in his usual calm tone of voice. “She is grieving. We have to let her.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah…” Kol again, sounding dismissive. “Just don’t ask me to do the same. We said our goodbyes and I refuse to give it any more thought. Yes, it’s sad and all, but we all hated the prick. He bloody murdered me, remember!? And he tried to do the same to all of you, including your daughter.”  
  
Niklaus must be in the room as well, but so far he is remaining quiet. Kol continues:  
  
“You know, Freya never knew Finn like we did. She only knew him as a child before everything turned to shit. That’s who she is grieving: the child.”  
  
Freya tries to block out the sounds of their voices, pressing her hands over her ears and rolling onto her side to put her back to the door.  
  
_The child…_  
  
They were children that summer day when they watched their father’s ships sail away. They had said goodbye to Mikael and his fellow warriors a little while earlier and wished them good luck on their raids and exploration.  
Before they had pushed away from the shore, Finn and Freya had climbed atop the mountain behind their house where the view of the ocean was magnificent. They sat there watching the ships shrink little by little until they had vanished on the horizon.  
  
“I think I would like to stay a child forever,” Finn had said, too sombre for a four-year-old.  
  
Freya looked at him, examining his round face, his chubby cheeks, confounded by such a statement.  
  
“Why?” She asked.  
  
“Growing up seems terribly...frightening,” he whispered.  
  
She didn’t know what to say to that. But as the elder child, it was her duty to protect him and cheer him up.  
  
Freya smiled mischievously and from the pockets of her dress pulled out two apples, stolen from their neighbour’s trees. She handed one to Finn and kept the other for herself.  
  
“Then we shall do as the Gods. Eat Iðunn’s apples to stay forever young.”  
  
She didn’t understand it then why her brother feared the journey of adulthood, but a few months later things started to fall into place, piece by piece.  
  
One day at the market, when traders and merchants from all over the world had found their way to their little corner in the North, Freya noticed a man who seemed just a little bit...off. There was something about his eyes, how they couldn’t quite seem to find their focus. Until they landed on her.  
  
The man was filthy in his worn and torn garments, his hair long and tangled, and when he saw her he licked his lips as if hungry. He marched towards her through the crowd and Freya suddenly felt frightened. But he never managed to close the distance between them. A few of the merchants had been keeping an eye on this strange man, and now seeing he had set his sights on Freya, restrained him.  
  
That’s when it happened. The man fought the grasp of those who held him back, and he cursed and spat, but his attention was still directed at her. His eyes bulged in his head as he screamed at her, words about her body, about what he wanted to do to her.  
  
Freya didn’t quite understand the meaning of his words, but she knew what he said was not something old men told little girls. It was something a husband said to his wife, or his slave-girl if his wife was not present.  
  
People gathered around them, everyone outraged.  
  
Freya's mother gathered her and Finn to her side, glaring at the man while she tried to cover the children's ears.  
  
“Don’t listen to him, darlings,” she said, trying to soothe them the best she could.  
  
“Mother, what is wrong with that man?” Finn whispered, his eyes big with fear and unshed tears.  
  
She hesitated a moment before speaking. “The Gods have cursed his mind. They have filled him with darkness, a rot that is eating at his soul.”  
  
This worried Freya. Why would the Gods do such a thing? Was it a punishment? He must have done something awful to be given a fate like that.  
  
She didn’t have time to ask her mother. Bursting through the crowd behind them came Mikael, as enraged as a wild bull. He rushed to the man and struck him hard with his fist. Again and again, he hit him, and the next time the man screamed his foul words, he spat blood and teeth onto the ground.  
  
Everyone was cheering their father on as he beat the man anew. They were hungry for more blood. All except Finn, Freya, and Esther, who stood back watching in horror as the man’s face transformed into an unrecognizable mess.  
  
But Freya saw then what Finn had; how being an adult seemed to make life more dangerous. How one sometimes must to terrible, awful things in order to protect yourself and the ones you love. It seemed a heavy burden to bear.  
  
Of course, whereas their father succeeded to protect her and the other children in the village that day, Freya failed to protect her little brother. Instead, he protected her, and he paid with his life. 

It is her fault. She should have killed Lucien on sight the first time he was introduced to her. Her siblings’ don’t have “old friends”. Only enemies.

How could she have been so weak? So stupid?

_“Pathetic girl.”_ There’s a voice in her head now, faint, but slowly clawing its way to the surface.

_“Selfish. Worthless.”_  
“It’s all your fault. You killed him.”

Freya tries to shut the voice out. She tries to think of Finn’s life and what it was like for him after she'd been taken by Dahlia. He did not have it easy. He did not get along with their siblings and for that, he was trapped in darkness for nine hundred years. Like her.

She did not blame him for becoming angry and vengeful. Anyone would be. She had been.

All she can hope for now is that he is finally at peace with the Gods.

_“Idiot. Your brother was a traitor, just like the rest of your wretched family. They abandoned the Gods. Do you really think Odin would welcome him to Valhalla now?”_

That voice again. 

Freya frowns. “He died in battle, a warrior’s death. A hero’s death. Odin will recognise that.”

_"He was a coward hiding behind his mother’s skirts. Odin would not want him, Freyja would not want him. He will have found himself at Helheim’s gates where he will serve Hel until Ragnarok comes. Perhaps you will meet in battle? Perhaps you will get to kill him again…”_

“No!” She tries to ignore the voice but it only grows stronger. Its presence is overpowering, drowning out all other thoughts. It calls to her over and over, whispering, planting a seed of doubt in her where there was none before.

What if Finn is not at peace? What if he truly is stuck in the Underworld where he will be forced to fight for Hel when the world ends? What if the Gods truly have abandoned him?

A day passes. Freya does not eat. She does not drink. She does not move.

Two days. Nothing.

_“He’s in Helheim…”_

Three days.

She feels so tired.

She just wants to give up.

The voice is telling her to.

–

–

–

It feels like she is floating. Like she is floating on water. In fact, she thinks she can feel the wetness against her skin, taste the salt of the ocean.  
Only...it tastes wrong. Foul.  
She winces and works to right herself, sitting up at the edge of the water.

She is sitting on grass, weeds and straws down by the river’s edge. For now that she has opened her eyes, Freya can see that it is not the ocean, but a wide river. The currents are so weak it does not even seem as though the water is moving. It’s peaceful.  
It feels easier to move now so she rises to her feet.  
She looks down at her wet clothes and is surprised to see she is clad in her old leather tunic and trousers. She remembers them clear as day, and yet it does not make sense. This was her hunting garb from the late 900s. How did it come to be on her body now?  
She is wearing leather boots as well, and a belt on which hangs a sword in a sheath. Her arms are bare but covered in war-paint.  
Freya has never worn such paint before. Dahlia never allowed it.

She takes a step closer to the river to see if she can catch her reflection and she does.  
Her long blonde hair is pulled back in intricate braids and her eyes are lined heavily with black kohl.  
She looks the perfect Viking warrior.  
And it makes no sense.  
Where is she? Or rather, _when_ is she?

Freya's surroundings are that of trees and mountains. They are beautiful and look like home, yet she cannot recognise this location as anywhere she has been before.

_“She doesn’t know.”_

That voice again.

_“She doesn’t understand.”_

A second voice. They are giggling.

_“Look around you, Freya. What do you see? Look closer….Closer…”_

And so she does.

She peers into the river where she woke and as she does a face floats to the surface. She hastily takes a few steps back. It’s the face of a corpse.

She turns around to watch the trees. Only...they look different now. From the branches hang bodies. Naked, bloated, rotting bodies. She tries to swallow her scream but doesn’t quite manage. What is this?

Laughter. More giggling.

_“The sick, the old, the self-slaughtered….Here they lie...rotting... in the river of Helheim. But the dead don’t always lie still here. This is not a place of rest.”_


	2. The Road To Helhem

**THE ROAD TO HELHEIM**

_"The Norse myths are the myths of a chilly place, with long, long winter nights and endless summer days, myths of a people who did not entirely trust or even like their gods, although they respected and feared them.”_  
– Neil Gaiman

Freya's father commissioned his sword from the best blacksmith in their village and he paid a hefty amount of coin to make certain it was crafted to his _exact_ specifications: Eighty centimetres in length, six centimetres wide, 2kg in weight. The blade needed to be double-edged and slightly tapered to bring the centre of balance closer to the grip, and the hilt was to be golden in colour, like his daughter’s hair under the early morning sun.  
  
Mikael named his sword Rawthul, and Freya watched as he washed the blade in the blood of a newly slaughtered goat – a sacrifice to the Gods so that they might favour Rawthul and bless it for battle. When her father came home from his summer raids, the sword was still covered in blood. But this time it was the blood of his enemies. It was the most glorious weapon Freya had ever seen.  
  
Now it hangs at her hip, the metal warm from the rays of sunlight. She does not remember how it came to be in her possession, nor does she question it. She is the eldest Mikaelson. The sword is rightfully hers by birth.  
  
She turns her face to the sky. It does not look different than back home. It is pale blue and dotted with tiny puffs of white, and the sun is at his brightest. And yet she knows she is far from home.  
  
_“Finn is here,”_ the voices whisper, some eager, others taunting. It immediately spurs her into action.

She walks. She follows the path into the trees and keeps to it. She walks and walks and walks. The sun sets and rises several times. She does not keep count. But she does remember what Mikael once told her about the journey to Helheim:

“You must go to the far North, and down through deep dark valleys. You will find a great river and you must follow it to its end. A path will be revealed and after nine nights of riding, it will lead you to a bridge covered in gold.”

Has it been nine nights, she wonders, when the trees become sparse and a vast view of a beach opens up before her. It does not matter. She sees it now – the bridge. It looms over yet another river. The River of Knives, her father called it. She sees now what he meant.

The river does not appear to be deep, nor wild like waters are known to be. But it is littered with spears and stakes all pushed firmly into the sand, their sharp tips facing up as though waiting for someone to fall and be impaled. And one would be if the bridge decided to evict you. It is plain to see.

Despite this, it is not an unpleasant view. The light of dawn illuminates the bridge and the dragon-shaped hive it leads to. The clouds are pale pink, like cotton candy. Fog and mist lay lightly atop the surface of the water dousing the whole image in mysterious intrigue.

Freya lifts her gaze to the bridge. It is said only the dead can cross it, and that once you burn a corpse its soul will travel directly to the gates of Helheim.

The Gods and the living must find a different path…

_“Find a different path.”_

“I know,” she murmurs absentmindedly, unable to tear her eyes off the bridge for a few more seconds, and more importantly the gates to which it leads.

_“That’s where she keeps him.”_

_"Go back.”_

_“Is his soul in there?”_

_“Who is she?”_

_“You’re going to die.”_  
  
Freya shuts her eyes tightly, trying to dislodge the voices that buzz like bees inside her head. They sound so alike and yet they continue to be conflicting. Some are cheering her on, some predict her death. Some hunger for her demise. Others are frightened. And only a few make sense.

_“That’s where SHE keeps him.”_

She. The Goddess Hel, daughter of the giantess Angrboða and the God Loki, half woman, half rotting corpse. She is the ruler of Helheim, this world where the sick, the old, and the unwanted are sent upon their death. It is not a place of punishment, but simply a world where the dead live anew, much like they did before.

Of course, come the world’s end – Ragnarok, Hel will fill her ship with the dead and they will travel to battle the Gods and the warriors of Valhalla and Folkvangr.

It is not what Freya wants for her brother. She does not wish to meet him on the battlefield of Ragnarok, to fight him until they both perish.

She lowers to her haunches and manoeuvres off the ledge of rock she is standing on, dropping down onto the soft wet sand of the beach. Her boots leave prints behind but there are none before her. She doesn’t think any living creature has set foot here for a very long time.

Keeping close to the mountain wall to her left as she walks, Freya checks for cracks wide enough to be a hidden path. In the end, it is nothing as obscure as that.

There is a set of stairs carved into the mountain. She doesn't hesitate to climb them despite the dire warnings that rush through her mind as she does. None of them nice and all of them questioning her intelligence. They are distracting and she does her best to shut them out. She needs to think of something else.

_Finn._

She clutches the blue pendant around her neck as she climbs. Sometimes she thinks she can still feel him in there, though his soul long since departed its prison. It brings her some comfort. She feels less alone. And it heightens her determination to find him, to take his soul away from this place and release it so that he may find peace.

It is a strange thing to be on a quest to defy the Gods. It feels wrong, and yet...Freya's Gods always have valued those who take matters into their own hands, those who do not weep at their feet and beg help where there are still other possibilities.

She is high up now, almost the same level as the bridge itself. But the stairs have come to an end and instead, she is faced with a very narrow beam, crossing from this side of the mountain to the next. Down below awaits a collection of solid, jagged rocks.

Releasing her hold on the pendant, she inhales deeply, her hands hovering precariously on either side of her as she takes her first hesitant step.

They played games like these as children, Finn and Freya, balancing across fallen tree trunks in the forest, competing to be the quickest, the most agile. This is just like that, she tells herself, despite the fact the wind is picking up around her and that slipping will condemn her to a fatal meeting with the rocks down below.

Carefully, she places one foot before the other, over and over, taking her time, gaze fixed steadily ahead in order to keep her balance.

She makes it across and breathes a sigh of relief. But whatever small victorious sensation takes hold of her after the beam’s end, vanishes once she realises she is met with a dead end. The bridge is close by. She can see it. But between her and it rests a solid wall of stone.

A growl of frustration escapes her, and she suddenly feels warm with annoyance. She presses her hands against the mountain, feeling for weaknesses, testing it. But it is as solid as it looks. She contemplates crushing it, reducing it to a fine powder with her magic, when a flicker of light catches her gaze.

Lowering onto her knees, Freya discovers a gap in the wall on the opposite side, not towards the bridge but further into the mountain. It takes her only a moment to decide to pursue it once she realises she can slip inside. It is a tight fit and rocks scrape across her face as she pushes herself further. But then suddenly she is loose, free-falling in the darkness until a cold body of water catches her.

She kicks to the surface, finding it harder than it usually would be due to the sword weighing her down, but she manages. Locating new rock in front of her with her fingers, once Freya finds purchase, she pulls herself up and out of the water.

There is light in the distance and she follows it, crawling on her hands and knees so to not collide with the roof. It is not long until she can climb out.

In front of her is a grand open space, carved out in rock. There is no ceiling up above, only the sunlit sky. Eight large columns are placed around the circular room, and from each hangs a lit brazier. There are plants here as well, pretty green vines clinging to the walls, making everything seem less intimidating.

At the end of the room is an enormous door, three times Freya's height and much the same in width.

_“The gate to Helheim.”_

“You must open it.”

_"Turn back!”_

_ “Hel is behind there.”_

_“You’re going to die here.”_  
  
She approaches it slowly and with caution, stopping once she is close enough to examine the markings on the door. It is a face, a woman. One side beautiful, the other dead. A depiction of Hel’s face.

Freya's heart pounds wildly, from excitement and from utter terror. What lays beyond this door? What will she see when she opens it? And more importantly, how will she convince Hel to release her brother’s soul?

The dead do not escape Helheim. Not for anything.

She hasn’t the answers but knows she must try. She has come this far.

She places both hands upon the door and push.

_“BEHIND YOU!”_

The voice in Freya's head pierces the silence and sounds so frightened she cannot help but obey. She whirls around and narrowly avoids the slash of a sword, only by throwing herself to the side at the very last moment.

She hits the stone floor hard and quickly scrambles to her feet, trying to ignore the aches to her side where she landed. She must focus. She _must_ focus on the enemy.

It is a man...No, not entirely. It is a man’s body, twice the size of her own. But his head is that of a skeleton. Of some monstrous stag.

Ulfheðnar.

A Berserker.

He is clad in leather trousers and boots made of animals skins, much like Freya's own. But he is bare-chested, displaying lean muscles and a torso as pale as a corpse. He walks like a man; a cocky man. A man who knows he is going to win. But he has the warrior spirit of an animal.

He watches her as though expecting her to make the first move, and this time Freya does not hesitate. She raises her hand towards him and summons a curse with the power to separate his head from his shoulders.

Only...it does not come. In a fit of panic, she tries again.

Nothing.

The Berserker advances on her as she makes a third attempt, and still, nothing happens. He is closing in quickly. Too quickly. She fumbles for the sword at her hip, her breath coming in terrified rasps. The hilt of his sword connects with her head before she can unsheath her own.

A sickening crack of bones echoes through the stone room. The pain is blinding and white-hot. Once more Freya finds herself on the floor, face down this time, fighting to keep her consciousness.

_“Look at her arm!" _one of the voices in her head calls, as though they are spectators and this is a game.

_“It’s turning black.”_

Freya turns her gaze to her right wrist, her sword-wielding arm. A new pain ambushes her. The hand is slowly encircled by black tendrils snaking their way towards her wrist. At first glance, she thinks it is burn-marks to the skin. But that is not right at all. It’s beneath it. Inside her.

_“Rot in her veins.”_ _  
_

_“Hel has marked her.”_

_“Each failure will bring you closer to destruction.”_

_“Once it reaches your head, she will have your soul.”_  
  
The pain fades slowly, just in time for Freya to see the Berserker approach again. It seems impossible to get back on her feet, and yet she does. She reaches for her sword and withdraws it, holding it up. It is not as heavy as she thought it would be, and it does not fill her with dread as suspected. Instead, she feels confident. It makes no sense, but it does not have to. As long as she manages to stay alive.

The Berserker beckons to her. He wants her to attack. She refuses. He is too far away and in the time it will take her to close the space between them, he will have sussed out all her weaknesses. Of which there are too many. He will easily strike her down.

And so she waits, hovering at the edge of the circular room, never taking her eyes off her opponent. When he finally decides to advance Freya feels as if everything around them slows. He is running, but it seems an eternity before he is actually within reach. Renewed fear coils around her like smoke, making her hands tremble, adrenaline rushing through her body like a drug.

His sword is raised and she tracks its progression towards her head with wide, terrified eyes, truly believing he is going to slice her in half. And is surprised to discover that both her hands have locked around the hilt of her sword. Surprised that she has raised it high over her head, her stance wide and steady.

The Berserker’s sword hits hers with a force that makes Freya's teeth rattle, and yet it does not knock her over. She is like the mountain. The meeting of blades causes a shower of sparks to erupt and the Berserker falls back a few steps, temporarily blinded and disorientated.

She lunges forth and swings her sword, slashing across his chest. And now everything is moving very quickly. She uses his moment of disadvantage to the fullest, cutting and stabbing and kicking. She has never fought like this before. Didn’t know she could. But again, she does not pause to question it.

Only when Freya makes her final move and the Berserker’s body turns to ash and disintegrates under her ministrations, does she stop. Breathless and suddenly very aware of the physical impossibility of what she has just done, she holds her sword up to the light, inspecting it, noticing a detail that has slipped her attention before.

Covered in fresh blood the blade’s Norse runes become visible. They are her runes. Her name. Her father carried her with him to battle.

She swallows the bout of love that rises up at this revelation and wipes the blade clean on the vines along the wall. Is it the sword itself that has given her the power to fight so expertly? She does not know.

What she does know for certain is that her magic failed her when she needed it most. She sheathes her sword and turns towards the gate, reaching out with hands and magic in order to crush it, like she intended to do with the mountain earlier. Nothing happens.

Giggling in her head.

_“Idiot. Foolish girl. This is Her domain. Your magic is useless here.”_

The realisation of it is a hard blow, one that makes Freya doubt herself entirely. For what is she without her magic?

_“Turn around. Go back. Go home!"_

No.

That is not an option. Magic or no magic, she will not abandon Finn. If she cannot use her weapon of choice, the sword will have to do.

Freya moves towards the gate again, pushing on it to see if it will open. It does not, and she is relieved to find no more Berserkers appear in her attempt.

She trails the markings on the door with her fingertips, below the face of Hel and below that the world tree, Yggdrasil. At the tree’s base, the same height as her eyeline, is a new symbol. It feels vaguely familiar but she cannot remember what it means.

Stepping away from the door, Freya turns to examine the rest of the room closer, particularly the stone floor and walls. Pulling a few vines aside, she eventually finds another door, carrying the mysterious symbol from the gate.

Tentatively, she reaches out to touch it and her mind descends into a chaotic cacophony of images and sounds.  
  
“Beyond this door is Surtr’s domain. You must defeat him and take his mark in order to open the Gate of Helheim.”

Surtr...

Freya knows him now. She knows who he is and what he is destined to do.

Swallowing thickly, she lays one hand on the door and pushes it open, stepping into the realm of the fire giant with the power to kill Gods.


	3. Surtr's Domain

**SURTR'S DOMAIN**

_"_ _Surtr ferr sunnan með sviga lævi,_

_skínn af sverði sól valtíva;_

_grjótbjörg gnata, en gífr rata,_

_troða halir helveg, en himinn klofnar._

  
  
_Surt fares from the south | with the scourge of branches,_

_The sun of the battle-gods | shone from his sword;_

_The crags are sundered, | the giant-women sink,_

_The dead throng Hel-way, | and heaven is cloven."_  
  
_– Völuspá_

  
It is too bright in here. How can it be so bright and so dark at the same time? There are trees and houses and mountains all around her, and they are all alight with fire. Like a mocking representation of Christianity's Hell. There are people too. Dead people, though some still stand, their faces contorted in agony, their bodies nothing more than charred flesh. The air is thick with the scent of burned human skin and hair, of smoke and ash that makes Freya choke and wheeze as she follows the narrow path in front of her, navigating her way through the dead and their fire. Her eyes water with pain. She can barely see ahead of her.  
  
The voices in Freya's head are quiet here. She thinks they too are afraid. But that does not mean there is silence. The dead are screaming. It's a deafening cacophony of men, women, and children, all crying out as the flames lick their bodies mercilessly. She does not know who they are, or rather, who they once were. Perhaps they are a taste of what is to come when Ragnarok begins? After the endless winter when mortals in their desperation to survive will slaughter one another; brother will slay brother, father will slay son, and son will slay father. When the sun and moon have been devoured by the wolves Sköll and Hati, leaving only darkness. When Yggdrasil, the world tree, trembles and releases Fenrir from his chains. Jörmungandr will rise from the depths of the waters and the seas will spill over the earth, its tremblings freeing Hel's ship in the Underworld so the dead and the giants can set sail for the final battle, with Loki, traitor of the Gods at the helm. The dome of the sky will split open and from the cracks the fire giants will emerge, with Surtr as their leader, burning everything in their path as they make their way for Ásgarðr. Perhaps this is what our world will look like once the end comes?  
  
Freya tries to ignore the cries of agony the best she can, for she can do nothing to help them. She stays on her path, the only patch of land that has yet to catch fire. For she must reach the foul beast, the giant who holds the key to the gates of Helheim. For Finn, she tells herself. She must do this for Finn.  
  
When her path comes to a sudden end she is conflicted. On either side of her, as well as ahead, there are walls of fire. The only way clear of the flames are behind her, the road she just travelled. What should she do? All paths except one lead to certain death. But if she goes back she will have failed. For once she wishes the voices in her head would re-emerge, tell her what to do, guide her. But they don't.  
  
Freya stands there for what feels like an eternity, contemplating the only two choices she has. Death or resignation? 

Her hand tightens on the hilt of her sword. Quitting is not an option. There is no honour in that. Fight on.

She sheathes her sword and inhales sharply, working up the courage to run. And she does. Straight ahead into the wall of flames.

They catch her immediately, burning her with their intense heat. When she makes it through and the space ahead is clear once more, she is still on fire. It clings to her, spreading, searing her skin, eating at her flesh, her hair, her lashes. She screams and soon her legs fail her. She can feel her eyeballs melt in their sockets, skin peeling away, throat filling with blood and smoke and liquid fire. When she can scream no more, when every part of her is blackened and charred beyond repair, the world turns dark.

\---

Freya is lying on the floor of Dahlia's cottage, convulsing and shaking with each stab Mikael delivers to her siblings' hearts. She feels them as acutely as if his sword has truly just pierced her as well. They all fall; Finn, Elijah, Niklaus, Kol, Rebekah...Why? Why would he do this? Why would he so brutally murder his own children?

Her eyes are wet with tears. Tears of blood that stain her cheeks. And the moment, that fateful, agonising moment, when she feels her younger siblings die, she screams.

Dahlia screams.

One cries with pure fury, fury for the plans that have been foiled and that will never come to fruition. Power lost.

The other cries from grief and heartache, for the failure of protecting those that matter the most.

And the mountains tremble in the wake of their combined force, as though Thor himself has just thrown Mjǫlnir at the earth.

\---

She wakes surrounded by the blazing heat once more, though finds her skin to be unmarred by flame and fire. The fear in her has gone. It is replaced with anger, the deep resentment of betrayal. Slowly, Freya gets to her feet.

In front of her is a grand circular room and opposite her is Surtr. He sits on a throne of burned human corpses, their blackened bodies sizzling and crackling like a roasting pig on a spit. He is twice Freya's height and very much looks like the Berserkers she faced before: lean but muscular, his head that of stag's skull encased in flaming thorns. She squints at him as she draws her sword, gleaning his face through the soot and smoke. There is something there. Something familiar.

Mikael.

He gets to his feet, watching her as she watches him. Her lips curl back in a feral snarl and she points her sword at him accusingly.

"I am so angry at you!" she calls, her voice barely audible over the roar of the fire but she knows he hears her. "You should have known. You should have known Esther was lying. You should have come for me! And the children..." Freya's breathing has turned ragged, hard. "They were yours. All of them. You were supposed to protect them. You were supposed to love them!"

Their father has failed them all, just as badly as their mother. Neither is without blame. Freya watches him now as he descends the steps from his dais, one by one, lazily and without any urgency at all. Arrogant. His every move screams arrogance and superiority. 

She hates him. She loves him. And she hates him.

She runs into the room and behind her flames erupt, enclosing them both in a ring of fire. That's when he pulls his flaming sword. It is nearly the same height as him, must weigh far more than any weapon Freya has ever seen. He drags it behind him along the floor as they circle one another and with the speed and agility one would never have believed possible of someone his size, he comes at her. He lifts his sword with ease and brings it down heavily.

Freya barely manages to roll out of the way before it hits the floor where she just stood, shattering the ground upon impact. She doesn't have time to catch her breath before the next strike comes. The sword itself narrowly avoids her flesh as it swings at her, but its flames scorch the skin on her arm. She can't withhold a scream as it does and the pain of it urges her to move faster, to dodge his attacks even though it leaves her no room to execute any of her own. She is merely evading. And she knows she can only manage for so long before the exhaustion of it leads her to make a fatal mistake. Her lungs are burning with the need for fresh air, sweat is running down her brow, stinging her eyes. It's so damned hot in here.

The dance continues until Freya is certain she is going to faint. The monster who is wearing her father's face does not tire. Each strike is as flawless as the first. But she senses his annoyance growing each time she successfully dodges his attacks. Like she is a fly and all he can do is swat her away.

When he finally relents she is out of breath, doubled over with her hands on her knees, gasping for air while keeping an eye out for his next move. Surtr drags his sword to the middle of the room, lifts it high above his head, and plunges the tip into the stone floor. Rivulets of fire erupt from every angle of the enchanted weapon, spreading through the room, some heading right for Freya. Once more she is forced to leap and jump and roll to avoid them setting her alight. And they don't stop. They keep coming. One line dies, a new is reborn.

She can't do this much longer. She has to put an end to it. She has to try even if her chances of succeeding are next to none.

Freya makes her way to Surtr's back. He has one knee planted to the floor, both hands on the hilt of his flaming sword, and he is focused on the fire. This is the time. The only time.

Summoning the meagre strength and stamina she has left, she runs at him, raising her sword high and jumps, thrusting it into the back of Surtr's neck. His skin is brittle like coal and her blade slides through him with ease. His hands drop from his weapon as she withdraws from him, only to drive forth once more, this time to pierce his heart. She does so from behind and when he falls a surge of lava sprays into the air, forcing her to rapidly pull away and shield her eyes.

As life seeps from the fire giant, the flames surrounding them dim until there is none left at all. His body lays very still, charred and without its former marbling of orange and reds. He is coming apart, evaporating into the air like particles of ash. And then there is nothing.

"You should have done better."

Freya's anger wanes. She is too tired to hold on to it. She allows herself to collapse to the floor, to catch her breath and rest her weary body.

_"She earned the mark."_

_"Doesn't matter. She will still die."_

_"She is strong."_

_"She is weak."_

The voices in her head return. Those annoying, conflicting voices that threaten to drive her mad. Or madder. 

But they are right – she earned the mark. And the rot along her arm has not spread. She won this round. And now she holds the key to Helheim's gates.


	4. Sea Of Corpses

**THE SEA OF CORPSES**

_ “I saw once a plague strike northern lands of ice. It was so terrible that not the oldest man among us could remember the like. Hundreds died. _

_ The sickness took nearly every person younger than forty and many older, and where dying mothers gave birth, the marks of the plague were on the babes as they came out of the womb.” _

–Hellblade

  


The gates open and from beyond the doors, dark shadows emerge. They flow across the bridge like smoke, curl and coil around Freya, whispering the words that once destroyed her. 

Memories. They are memories.

And then she comes, in their wake. A giant creature, half woman, half corpse. Skin so pale it is almost blue. Eyes so dark they are but hollow sockets. She has no hair, nor clothes, and under the stench of decaying flesh, there is a note of...jasmines. 

Freya knows that scent. It makes a fear spike in her heart and her palms sweat.

The creature crawls onto the bridge for she cannot fit through the gate standing, and it quivers under her weight. 

A melody fills the night-air, and upon hearing the familiar tones Freya’s knees give out from under her.

_ Her lullaby. Dahlia’s lullaby. _

“Get up.” The other voices have faded and a new one has taken their place. Mikael. It is so dark and warped Freya can barely recognize it. “Get up, you disgrace! You are showing weakness! The Gods are laughing at you! You are pathetic!”

He does not understand. Freya cannot fight her. She never could. Dahlia is too strong. Too cruel. He does not know the depth of her punishments should Freya rise up against her. She will trap her in the dark again. Will deprive her of food and water and sleep until she loses her mind. Demons will claw at her body and soul. And there will be no mercy. Dahlia never had any mercy…

“The Gods will punish you for this.” Her father’s angry voice echoes within her mind. “Your brother is lost.”

_ Finn. _

Freya almost forgot. How could she have?

She is not here for herself. She is here for him. Her own fate no longer matters. 

Shakily, Freya reaches for her fallen sword, slick palms twisting around the hilt. The other voices return. They return with her feeble courage. 

_ “Get up.” _

_ “Hurry.” _

_ “She is the source of the darkness.” _

_ “Fight it!” _

Freya swallows and slowly clambers to her feet. Blood rushes in her ears, her heart is beating uncomfortably fast, and her limbs feel weak. But she has to do this. She has to stand against her aunt. It is the only way. 

The creature notices. She shuffles closer with slow, languid movements. And as their eyes meet, Freya runs for her.

Freya’s sword swings for the creature’s face but never finds its target. The giantess lifts her arm and swipes Freya off the bridge with ease. Like a man flicking an ant off his shoulder. 

She is falling. Falling through the darkness. Off the bridge and down into the rocky abyss below. 

She hears the sound of her sword breaking upon the rocks just a second before her own body meets the ground, shattering.

Pain. Unimaginable pain, attacking every nerve Freya’s body possesses, transmitting impulses to a confused brain that causes her to jerk and spasm in agony. Liquid fire coils about her insides like a serpent, squeezing the life from every organ that dwells within her, turning them hard like stone. 

Any attempt at opening her eyes is quickly hindered by blinding discomfort, vision distorted and blurred as if she is looking directly into the core of the sun. 

Cold droplets of sweat trickle down Freya’s forehead, clinging to fair eyebrows and grazing sunken cheeks and chapped lips, the taste of salt on her tongue every time her lips part to expel blood-curdling screams. 

Heavy eyelids fight exhaustion to open and when they finally succeeded, Freya wishes she had never woken at all. Renewed pain takes hold of her, as if the sensations felt when sleeping has only been foreplay.

Even for an immortal, healing is painful. Have you ever shattered every bone in your body? Have you ever crushed your skull and watched your brains spill out from inside you? This is not Freya’s first time. But it does not make it any better. Knowing what to expect does not make the process any easier. All you can do is lie there until finally, you regain some control of your own body.

When Freya is able to sit up she notices she is in a damp cave, hidden away beneath the bridge up above and surrounded by jagged rocks. There is a lit fire beside her. She does not know how that has come to be. And in the flames rests her broken sword.

_ I have lost. How can I continue this battle with no weapon? No sword. No magic. _

She breathes a gasp of sorrow, her fingers clutching at the stony ground beneath her as she leans forward. She catches her own reflection in a puddle of water. She looks dead. Covered in her own blood. And there is a nasty gash on the side of her head still bleeding, still oozing crimson with a fervour. As though it has no intention to stop.

_ “Pathetic,” _ one of the voices whispers.

_ “Such a failure. Such a disappointment.” _

_ “Unwanted. Unloved. Alone always.” _

_ “Go on. Pity yourself. No one else will.” _

And then her voice. Dahlia’s. From when Freya was still a child. “You are weak. You do not use your magic as I have taught you. I will not heal you. You do not deserve it. If you refuse to practice and grow your power you are nothing but a feeble offspring of the savage. And so I shall treat you, and your wounds, as such.”

In Freya’s memory, it is her aunt’s hand that reaches for the knife. And yet she can tell with absolute clarity it is Freya who takes the sword from the fire now. The blade is broken. It is no longer than a dagger now, and its edges are as jagged as the rocks surrounding her. It glows orange from its time spent in the flames and as she pulls it close to her face she feels its searing heat.

She presses the glowing metal to the wound at her temple and screams. Her vision is fading anew and the pain is threatening to send her back into the solitary darkness.

“Freya!”

A new voice.

She lowers the sword and looks around wildly. This voice did not come from inside her head. The cauterized wound throbs violently and her burned skin demands attention. But she does not waver from the voice. 

“Freya!”

And then she sees it. In the cracks of the rocky abyss, there is a light.

Slowly, she shuffles to her feet and moves towards it, easing herself out from the cave through the slit in the wall.

The light is a person. Far, far away. Glowing blue. 

“Come, Freya.”

_ Finn! It’s Finn! _

She tries to run but her legs won’t obey, instead limping briskly towards the silhouette of her brother. But whenever she gets close he moves, further and further out of her reach. Her feet feel heavy in the wet sand she steps on, and maneuvering between the numerous shipwrecks on this cove is exhausting. Yet she does not stop.

Freya is out of breath when she finally leaves the broken ships behind her and is faced with a small hill upon which stands a magnificent tree. It is a comforting sight amidst all the destruction, especially because at its roots is Finn. Waiting. 

She moves towards him up the slope but comes to a sudden halt when the air shifts around her. Darkness descends once more and the luscious tree in front of her sheds its green leaves, leaving behind bare branches upon which hangs human corpses. It burns. The tree is on fire.

A soft whimper escapes Freya. It is like the forest of corpses back home. The poor souls who fell victim to her and Dahlia’s combined magic. Dahlia would hang them from the trees like Christmas decorations, warding off any and all who dared set foot onto her property. 

Finn has disappeared but there is still a soft blue light glowing from the trunk of the tree. Freya tries to ignore the scent of burned flesh and climbs up the hill. The trunk is hollow and she slips inside, stepping on a floor of skulls and bones of those who have met their end here. 

In one of the raised roots is a sword, gleaming with blue light, the blade deeply embedded in the wood. She marvels at it and hears Finn’s voice again: “Gramr, it is called. A sword that can slay Gods. Odin placed it here himself. Take it, Freya.”

Freya does. She tries. But as soon as her hand closes around the hilt, she feels as though her skin is on fire. She rapidly lets it go.

Somewhere Dahlia is laughing. “Stupid girl. You are not worthy. You are not worthy of your dark Gods.”

“I am,” Freya argues, surprising even herself. “I am worthy! I have been a warrior of Odin since birth! I have been his for more than a thousand years, even as you tried to beat it out of me. I have remained faithful. I have prayed. I have sacrificed. And I do not kneel to any God, for they themselves have told me we should stand beside one another as equals. I am worthy!”

Without any further hesitation, she grasps the sword anew and with barely any effort at all, pulls it from the tree’s roots. It is long and beautiful and she can feel its power through her skin, filling her with renewed confidence and motivation.

She has come so far. She will not leave here without her brother. 

Dahlia hisses, displeased and angry. “You will pay for that.”

The exit to the tree closes up with vines and branches, suffocating the daylight that attempts to make it through the cracks. Once more Freya is swallowed by darkness and she feels the ground give out from under her. 

She lands on her feet this time, like a cat. She is no longer standing on rock or sand but mud. A strange, red mud.

Looking up she sees a narrow path ahead. High walls on either side. Mountains. And the path is covered in water. Also red.

_ No...Not water. Blood. _

Freya steps closer to the edge, the air sticking in her lungs as she examines her surroundings closer. Atop the river of blood, she can see rotting limbs. Eyeballs. Skulls. Organs. And protruding from the walls are...arms. Moving arms that reach for her.

And there are moans of pain, screams of terror and sorrow. Reanimated, rotting corpses threatening to pull her into their grasp should she continue any further.

“Do you recognize them?” Dahlia again. “You should. You killed them, after all. You and your siblings. You blame your darkness on me, my Freya, but what of the atrocious acts you committed while on your own? I did not make you kill them. You chose to. You slashed and hacked and squeezed the life from them with your rage and persistence to stay alive. You poisoned them. You unleashed the plagues. Because it suited you. Do you think you deserve forgiveness? Do you think the Gods believe you righteous enough to see you safely through the Sea of Corpses? Let us find out.”


	5. The End

**THE END**

She stares down the path ahead, a narrow passage of bloodied water nestled between tall and rocky walls. On either side, the arms of the dead protrude. They grasp and swipe at thin air as if hoping they will find something to hold onto. Something that will pull them out from their doom.

Her body is tired and broken. Gramr hangs limply at her side. The mere thought of having to go on, to fight new battles, is exhausting. But what other choice is there? Run away from the dangers of this realm of the dead? Hide?

No. It is better to stand and fight. If you run, you’ll only die tired.

Tired. So tired.

{“You have to go on!”}

{“We can’t stay here!”}

{“This place is awful!”}

{“Get us out of here!”}

For once the voices are all in agreement. They wish to continue their journey. And Freya must be the one to carry them.

She inhales to brace herself and steps into the water, sinking deeper and deeper until it reaches her waist. All around her severed limbs, eyeballs, human bones, and entrails bob along the surface, making her feel as if she has just landed herself in a macabre soup.

The hands reach for her, greedy in their desperation. Fingernails claw at her bare arms as she forces herself to move. Everything is red and hot and the screams of the dead are deafening. A few familiar faces flash before her eyes as she fights her way through the passage; faces of those who had to die so Freya could live. So her family could survive. They shriek and cry and watch her with anguished gazes. Some feel betrayed. Others are scared. Most are angry. Vengeful. They long for her demise. They want to tear her apart just as she tore at everything they loved and cherished.

“Murderer!” The people of her family’s village call as she passes, their faces twisted in agony and fury. Freya was only five then, when Dahlia tricked her into unleashing the plague that killed them all. Freys hadn’t meant to. And did not know the outcome of her magic until her aunt paraded her before their corpses.

“Monster!” Two children’s bodies coiled together like serpents, naked and disembowelled. Twin boy and girl. Innocents who met their demise because Freya, in her selfish need, wanted friends. Friends her aunt disposed of in a most gruesome manner.

“Barbaric seductress!” A man this time. Ødger. Viking merchant. Big and strong. With his throat slit and cock still hard. Freya’s first.

They continue to come, all those who have met their end because of her. Adults and children alike. Men and women. They scream their foul accusations, most of them true. They try to break her with their words. Perhaps once they would have managed.

But Freya has lived with her actions for more than a thousand years. She has had time to reflect and experience guilt. No more. She knows what she is. 

A monster. 

And she regrets nothing.

Despite her exhaustion, Freya’s sword-hand lifts once the passage widens and berserkers come into view. They look so at home here in this place of death. The red of the water reflects in their shiny white skulls.

Time to fight. Again. For Finn, Freya will.

It is harder this time. The earlier parts of her journey have worn her out. Her head still throbs from its latest injury. And the water, up to her ankles now she is closer to shore, makes it difficult to move swiftly.

But the sword, Gramr, has power. She can feel it radiate from the first time it draws blood. It strengthens her, allows her to maneuver her body in ways she otherwise never would have been able to accomplish. It slices through her opponents with hungry slashes, adding more limbs and entrails to the water at their feet.

Time ceases to exist. There is only Freya, the sword, and their enemies. There is only the taste of blood and the ecstasy of battle.

And she climbs onto the shore, victorious. Because there is no other option. The story can not end differently.

As she leaves the Sea of Corpses behind, she sheaths Gramr and climbs the giant set of stairs before her. They are made of stone and appear to be never-ending, leading up into the heavens themselves. But, of course, there are no heavens. Not here. Not in Hel. It is another test. How patient can you be? How much time do you have to spare? How long can you endure the climb until your body gives in?

Her throat is parched. How long has it been since she had anything to drink? She cannot remember. Surely not since before this journey started. Not since…

No, she will not think of that. She will not think of home and those who wait for her there. She has a mission to complete. Finn needs her.

Out of breath, with legs trembling and knees protesting the act of holding her up, Freya finally reaches the landing. When she looks back down, it seems as though she has not made much progress at all. But that cannot be true. The climb was long and arduous. And still...she can see the corpses she left in her wake. Not too far behind…

{“Look!”}

{“What is that?”}

{“It’s a mirror!”}

The voices draw her attention back to the matter at hand and they are indeed right. On the landing, there is a mirror. Floor-length and framed in gold.

There is nothing else. No gates. No doorways. Of course, what is a mirror if not a portal for lost souls?

She steps close and watches herself in its reflection. She looks a horror. Her warrior makeup is smudged and blended with residual blood, sweat, and tears. The ends of her braids are all stained crimson. There are gashes and tears in her clothing. And her right arm is enveloped in black tendrils. They pulse beneath her skin like poison, snaking from her hand to the top of her shoulder, dangerously close to her neck.

One more battle lost, and Freya will have lost the war as well. She will perish.

She swallows hard and meets her own gaze. This is the end. One way or another. She can feel it. They are coming to a close.

Her fingers reach for the mirror, gently touch its surface. It ripples like water.

{“It’s the way inside.”}

{“To her! To Hel!”}

{“To Finn!”}

Correct, once again.

{“It’s the end!”}

{“Wait! What?”}

{“No!”}

{“What happens when she dies?”}

{“We die?”}

{“We don’t want to die!”}

Perhaps they will. They were not here before. It does not matter to Freya. She never asked them to be a part of her.

She takes a step closer and pushes her arm through the mirror.

The voices scream their objection.

{“Stop her!”}

{“I don’t want to die!”}

{“Please! No!”}

{“Stop! Stop! STOP!”}

Their pleas fall on deaf ears. She pays them no heed and steps through the portal.

What meets her on the other side is a surprise.

A gigantic dark room with floating platforms, all alight with glowing runes. It is rather beautiful. They align when she steps forward as if welcoming her to walk across them. They will take her where she needs to go. To Her. The Goddess on the other side. Hel.

She sits there waiting. Crouched on all fours. So big it feels like she could fill the room if she wanted to. Her eyes are black charcoal, half her body still smoldering like a burned corpse, while the other displays fresh skin carved with runes. She is both beautiful and horrendous. Half woman, half corpse.

And she watches Freya as she approaches, sword drawn.

“I want him back! Give me my brother!”

Hel says nothing. The distance between them is still great.

So Freya runs. She charges across the platforms, fueled by adrenaline and pure willpower.

_I am coming, Finn. I am coming!_

From thin air, berserkers appear. An arm locks around her waist and hauls her back, throwing her to the floor. She loses her breath for a moment but keeps hold of her sword. When she manages to get back on her feet, she is surrounded. They are coming at her from all sides, slowly closing in.

They fight, Gramr and Freya, slicing and slashing and hacking at everyone and everything that comes close. They twirl and spin and parry so hard sparks of fire erupt between the weapons. They kill. Leave no survivors once they charge for them.

But they keep coming, the enemy. They are infinite. One dies, two more appear. And soon, Freya is trapped in a dizzying cacophony of clashing swords and agonized groans.

“Let go, Freya.”

A new voice. Familiar. But she cannot place it.

She stabs Gramr into the chest of a berserker and as his body turns to dust, twirls out of the way of a new attack.

“Let go.”

Who is saying that? Who dares try and convince her to give up?

A sword-hilt slams into the back of her neck and she falls anew, only just managing to roll out of the way as an axe swings for her head.

“Let go. It’s time.”

No. Never! She will never stop! She has to make this right. She is the older sister. She is supposed to protect them. It is her duty. Her purpose in this life. And she has failed him. She let Finn slip through her hands. She should have done better. She should have been stronger. She should have kept him safe.

Another blow to her head and she is seeing stars. Her kneecaps slam against the smooth, shiny floor beneath her, and she sways.

A punch to her jaw snaps her head to the side, while another to her ribs has her doubled over. It is a rain of blows and punches and they won’t stop.

She tastes blood again. Her own this time. And no matter how hard she tries to hold on, Freya fades.

A scream wakes her. It takes her a few seconds to recognize it. 

Freya. 

She is screaming. The pain of the earlier assault is nothing compared to the agony that now has her in its clutches.

The rot. 

It is spreading anew. It slithers up her torso, her neck, takes hold of her head with its constricting tentacles. It feels like fire. And ice. All at the same time. She is suffocating.

She has failed her quest. And this is her punishment.

The Goddess of Death crouches before her. She watches Freya writhe in torment with the curiosity one would give a dying insect.

“Please.” The word barely escapes Freya’s lips. It is hard to breathe anything other than screams. “Give him back to me! Release him! I’ll do anything…”

Hel gives no sign of having heard the witch. She just watches.

Freya’s sword lies a mere few feet away. Maybe if she is quick enough…

No. As if Freya’s thought was her own, Hel takes Gramr for herself. It glows blue in the dark. It is so beautiful.

The Goddess reaches for her, captures Freya’s throat in her free hand, and lifts her from the floor like a ragdoll. 

Freya has barely the strength left to squirm. Hel draws the sword back and thrusts it forth, burying the length of Gramr’s sharp blade in Freya’s abdomen, twisting cruelly until she has had her fill. Then she drops her.

Freya hardly feels the impact of the fall. 

The lethal wound Hel has just inflicted is all-consuming. Her lungs are filling with blood. 

And in her chest, the dreaded death rattles set in. Short, suffocating gasps. A dying body fighting for purchase in the realm of the living.

One side of her face rests upon the cool floor. Her vision weaves in and out of nothingness. But it settles once she recognizes Him.

Finn.

He is here. On the floor beside Freya. Facing her, one arm used to prop his head up. He smiles, so gently it feels like her heart is breaking all over. There is so much she wants to say. So much she needs to say. 

But she cannot utter a single word. All she can do is hold on to life for a few moments longer. All she can do is fight to be with him.

“I know you are hurting,” Finn says softly. “You are supposed to. A life without loss is one without love. And a life without love is not one worth living.

“Look at me, Freya. I am not gone. I am not lost. I am simply different. I reside here now.” His fingers lift to gently press against her forehead, where her skin has turned black from the rot within. “Find me in your memories. In our stories. In the wind that rustles the leaves on your favourite tree. I am not gone.”

Freya’s breathing is nothing but the gasps of a drowning woman. She can feel herself losing the battle. But she tries to hold on.

Finn smiles again and finds her hand with his, squeezing it.

“You sought death for so long. You begged for it. Pleaded for it to take you. But it refused. Until you forgot death comes for all. Even us – the cursed and wretched.

“And now you are hiding from it. The longer you hide, the darker its shadows grow. Until all you see is darkness. You are drowning in it, sister.

“You must embrace death as a friend. Only then can you let go of the fear, and emerge from your darkness.”

He leans down over her as she takes her final breath, presses his lips to her forehead, and whispers: “Let go, Freya.”

* * *

“Is she waking up?”

“Oh, thank God.”

“Freya? Freya, can you hear me?”

Elijah’s face is the first that greets her when she opens her eyes. The concern in his eyes is so evident it is impossible to misunderstand.

Freya tries to whisper his name, expecting she won’t be able. She is wrong. “Elijah?”

“I’m here,” he breathes, a relieved smile spreading across his lips. 

She likes it when he smiles. It is so rare.

“I am also here. Not that anyone cares.”

Freya turns her head to see Niklaus seated in an armchair beside her bed, looking rather worse for wear. As if he has not had sleep for days.

She cares. She tries to tell him but he cuts her off. “What the bloody hell happened?”

That’s a complicated question. She tries to sit up but her body isn’t eager to comply. She feels weak. But there is no pain.

“You’ve been unconscious for seven days,” Elijah informs once Freya says nothing, his brow creased with renewed concern. “We couldn’t wake you. No matter how hard we tried.”

Niklaus casually leans back in his seat, but the tone of his voice betrays his eagerness for answers and reassurance. “Tell her about the seizures,” he demands of their brother, then continues before Elijah has a chance to: “Strange seizures that resulted in injuries. From thin air! We’ve had to change your bedding every day due to the blood!”

A serious topic, for certain, yet Freya finds herself smiling. Amused.

That feels good. Amusement.

“Is it a spell?” Elijah asks. “The Strix?”

She shakes her head slowly, and finally, with the help of her brother, manages to sit up. “No. This was...something different.”

Niklaus remains impatient. “Care to enlighten us?”

How can she? How to explain? What does she even know?

Was it real? Did Freya truly leave her body and descend to Hel in search of her brother’s soul?

Or was it a delusion? A trick of the mind enhanced by her powerful magic?

Does it matter? Either way, something heavy has lifted from her chest. And for the first time since Finn died, she is truly ready.

Lucien Castle will die on his knees, weeping.

Freya will make sure of it.

* * *

The end. 


End file.
